Death in Venice-The Art of Adaptation

Surrounding the adaptation of any successful novel is an implacable shroud of controversy. Ardent fans disappointed with even the most minute of changes riot and it is accepted as fact that the book is better than the film. What these fans fail to confront, though they must certainly realize it, is the necessity of change during the adaptation process. The filmmakers must include their own voice in the adaptation for it to be of any value as a film. Otherwise, the film lacks soul, lacks heart, lacks motivation, and is little more than banal. It must exist as a work on its own, capturing the director's and screenwriter's vision, while simultaneously remaining true to the original work.

Luchino Visconti illustrates his mastery of the cinema in maintaining this balance in one of his most well respected works, Death in Venice. Based on a German novella of the same name by Thomas Mann, they both revolve around the story of Gustav von Aschenbach, an artist who retreats to Venice and begins obsessing over true Beauty, as it is reflected in a young Polish boy. In the novella, Aschenbach, a famous writer, searches out new experiences and so travels to Venice confronting vicariously through passers-by his own insecurities about art and love, life and death. Much of the novella is spent in a narrated soliloquy, meditating on the aforementioned concepts. In Venice he discovers Tadzio, a boy whose androgynous beauty might be compared to the Mona Lisa. Gustav begins to obsess over the boy, telling himself it is all aesthetic appreciation, but it quickly develops into an increasingly intense infatuation. Gustav discovers that Venice is being plagued by cholera, something the officials are trying to hide, due to the booming tourist trade. In spite of this discovery, he decides to remain in Venice, so as to never be forced to leave the side of his beloved Tadzio. In the end, he deteriorates ferociously until his death, his body ravaged by the cholera, a disease not nearly as dangerous as his unconsummated love.

The changes made between the novella and the film are limited. In the film Aschenbach's retreat is for health reasons, not for a renewed zeal for travel. He is a musician instead of a writer, and specifically addresses this as an example during his heated conversations with a friend. These discussions replace the inner monologues by communicating the same ideas. Tadzio also behaves differently. In the novella, he is simply present, and may not even realize the feelings that Gustav has for him. In the film, there are times where it seems like he is almost posing for Gustav. The feelings of homosexuality are portrayed more in the film than the novella, which, in a way, debases the emotions evoked by a man proud of his intellectualism. Aschenbach can be frequently found pontificating on the virtues of reason, but his attachment to this boy is something that extends beyond any sort of rationale. The suggestion that it is a purely sexual attraction moves it from an aesthetic appreciation to something much more banal.

But these are all symptoms of the curse of adaptation. The major changes between the book and movie were not things of plot. Those changes matter little in the long run. The changes that result in any adaptation are changes in meaning. In this film, Visconti succeeded in translating the mood of the novella, a brooding work that seems to take place outside of the world of dialogue. This is a testament to his ability as a director, that he transfered this feeling of inconsolably intense need through the restrained actions of both Dirk Bogande and the camera. It takes its time, it hesitates, it pauses for reflection; all of this makes it a very patient film, one not rushed by typical conventions. The novella is written in much the same fashion. It is what we would now call a character study, relatively plotless, but diving into the soul of a man to discover the way in which he perceives the world.

However, there was one significant thing that Visconti left out during his translation: ambiguity. It is very difficult in film to be as ambiguous as a work of literature. When images accompany words, the images make concrete what might otherwise have been hallucinated or imagined. In the film Tadzio recognizes Aschenbach because Aschenbach wants him to. But if one has not read the book, it seems like a much more intentional tryst every time their eyes meet. It appears homosexual.

Another effect of the loss of ambiguity is the reduced array of possible interpretations. In the novella, a whole slough of things might have occurred within Aschenbach's head. As the film gives no indication that he might be imagining things, this leads to only one way in which to see the work. There is much more freedom within the novella to explore his particular psyche. The book hints, though never confirms, a possibility that many of the people he meets are simply extensions of himself and, as I said before, his insecurities. In the film, one might get that impression from his arguments with his friend from back home, but they still seem like simple disputes. In the end, Visconti has picked an interpretation of the book and moved forward based on that.

But there, as the bard says, there's the rub. The whole point of adaptation and the older art of retelling told tales, lies in their relevance to today, or altered meanings. When Shakespeare wrote Henry V, it was a retelling of an historical event that was relevant to the British defeating the Spanish Armada. And when Lawrence Olivier performed it in 1940's London, the British had just survived the Nazi's Blitz. When Kenneth Branaugh adapted it into film in the 80's it was about Vietnam. They each changed the story a bit to make it about something new. Not only is this alteration important, it is necessary for an adaptation to be worth anything. It must be recognizable as the old, and yet, at the same time be nakedly apparent as something new, something relevant. In the words of Gustav's filmic profession, it must be a variation on a theme. The theme exists in order for us to become intimate with the work. We recognize the story and allow ourselves to be submerged in this comforting realm of familiarity. But then the artist takes us deeper into something that shatters the veil between the illusion and the reality.

In fact, this moment is not unlike the moment that Nietzsche speaks of in the 21st chapter of The Birth of Tragedy. “The Apollonian illusion reveals its identity as the veil thrown over the Dionysiac meanings for the duration of the play, and yet the illusion is so potent that at its close the Apollonian drama is projected into a sphere where it begins to speak with Dionysiac wisdom, thereby denying itself and its Apollonian concreteness.” The Apollonian is the Mann novella, something we have come to see as a standard of great literature. But when Visconti changes some of the key moments in the book, he changes them intentionally, to make a statement about all of us today, and becomes the Dionysian. Perhaps he is commenting on our collective voyeurism, or the way in which we hold artists above everyone else. He may be saying any number of things.

But such is the nature of adaptation. We are lured into a story we know, only to see it changed ever so slightly. Sometimes this change is out of necessity, due to the book's inability to be translated into film. It could be like Ulysses or On the Road. Both of these have been said to be impossible to adapt. But every so often a great artist comes across a great work and makes it his own.